


Primitive (the cyclone remix)

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Eames wakes up alone and naked on a strange couch. He vows: never again.For Inception Remix Challenge.





	Primitive (the cyclone remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Primitive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9692537) by [deinvati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati). 



Eames is lying on a strange bed. No, a strange couch, and he is naked. He rolls over, tries to untangle the sheet wrapped round his legs and--

Bellyflops down to the floor.

Eames sucks in a breath, cheek mashed against hardwood. The pain from the impact subsides. All that's left behind is a bruising hangover and a telltale soreness in his arse--Arthur's handiwork, no doubt. 

Eames attempts to push himself up into a sitting position. He nearly screams when the splint on his left hand (and where the hell had that come from?) twists at the pressure.

He topples to the ground a second time. Two fingers are broken--thankfully, on his nondominant hand. He lies completely still, panting and waiting for the acute pain to recede. 

With his eyeline at floor level, he can see a broken lamp on the other side of the sofa. Must have fallen and shattered sometime within the past twenty-four hours, but memories of when and how are shrouded in an alcohol-tinged fog.

There are disjointed pieces: an argument with Arthur, a drunken brawl, a glorious-angry fuck, a car accident. He can't recall where they'd happened, or in what order.

Eames manages to flip himself onto his back without triggering agony and stares at the ceiling. It's familiar. Hammered tin tiles of the short-term rental he'd arranged for the duration of this job. And Arthur --

Arthur's been fucking Eames' brains out every night for the past few weeks. Usually, he sleeps over--easier to arrange a convenient morning blowjob that way--but there's no sign of him in the empty flat.

Eames carefully drags himself upright. Then hauls himself to his feet, shambles into the shower. He pauses at the sink, which is conspicuously clear: Arthur's armada of hair and skin care products no longer cover the entire surface.

Eames washes himself down and checks his sore hole (no dried semen or blood, thank Christ). He skips shaving and dresses in jeans and a fisherman's sweater. It's not a cold day, but Eames feels a chill; nothing scrambles his temperature regulation like a night (and day?) of hard drinking.

After some searching, he finally locates his mobile (tucked in the pocket of torn set of trousers by the sofa). He has fifty-six unread emails, all of them junk; seven unopened voicemails from his bank (straight to the bin); and four texts, the most interesting of which is from Mikhail about a new job. 

Mikhail might be the most loathsome creature in Russia (which is quite the title considering Eames has been kidnapped and tortured by the KGB twice), but Eames could certainly use the money. Especially since the job that brought him to this city won't be paying out after all.

No communiques from Arthur. 

Eames considers texting him, but all the questions he wants to put forth carry unfortunate connotations. "Where are you?" while meant in the spirit of curiosity brings to mind a desperate stalker, while "What happened?" suggests existential crisis. 

Eventually, Eames opts against the text in favor of acquiring groceries.

He pops by a local shop which carries overpriced basics and approximately six thousand types of curries. As he's rung up, he considers how long it's been since he last spoke to Arthur. Not quite a day, according the twinge in his jaw that always lingers after he deepthroats.

A memory: he's reclining on one of those cheap lawn chairs Arthur likes to procure for jobs, surrounded by the sleeping bodies of the team. Eames holds out his arm, beckoning Arthur closer. When Arthur approaches with the line to the PASIV in hand, Eames tugs him in by the belt loop and presses his face to the outline of Arthur's cock, clearly visible through his trousers.

Arthur digs his fingers in Eames' hair and yanks his head back. The sensation makes Eames' cock jerk. "They could wake up." 

Eames undoes Arthur's trousers and pulls forth that long, lovely cock. He kisses the head as a deep thrill runs up his spine; anyone could open their eyes and see. "Best not to waste time, then."

Arthur doesn't try to stop Eames. In fact, he pushes Eames' head down and straddles him, hips snapping forward and back. Eames moans and goes slack as Arthur takes his pleasure mercilessly, less than five feet from their sleeping teammates.

Arthur's coming down Eames' throat when the extractor starts shouting. The situation devolves as the rest of the team regains consciousness. 

They're both fired. 

Unsurprising, at least to Eames. Arthur, on the other hand, does not take the news with as much grace.

* * * * *

Eames pays for his beer, eggs, and curry. He's walking towards the exit when a familiar silhouette fills the doorframe.

If only Arthur were in a grotty track suit, or an oversized football jersey (he'd disembowel himself before wearing such cheap and unflattering materials). No, he's in a three-piece grey suit, elegant down to the patterned pocket square. It's enough to make any man retch and then spread his legs immediately.

"I wouldn't have expected for you to be awake this early." Arthur gives Eames a once-over with a tinge of possessiveness to it. Eames realizes, belatedly, that the pullover he's wearing was given to him by Arthur. 

"I wouldn't sleep in so late if I weren't kept up so late." Eames steps closer to Arthur, inhales the scent of him. Amazing that something so familiar can remain so heady.

"What do you expect to happen when you're constantly begging for cock?" Arthur's thumb traces the corner of Eames' mouth to his bottom lip, dipping in when Eames begins to suckle instinctively. There are people passing by, looking over, looking away--pretending they don't see Eames ready to sink to his knees.

Eames bites down hard enough for Arthur to withdraw. "But of course," Eames murmurs, voice already husky. "You're completely unaffected."

Arthur responds predictably, nostrils flaring as his gaze flickers between Eames' eyes (pupils fully dilated at this point, doubtless) and his lips. What he says next does surprise Eames, however. "I thought we agreed we weren't doing this anymore."

Eames wants to bury his face in Arthur's groin, his armpit, his beautiful arse. He wants to see Arthur covered in come from his cheekbones to his chin. He wants Arthur's cock to lift him to howling ecstasy--why the devil would they ever stop?

But the set of Arthur's jaw is serious, not flirtatious, and a half-memory tickles at the back of Eames' mind. Yesterday afternoon: arguing back at the flat about being fired; accusations and blame fired about; Eames' mind being sucked out through his cock (Arthur did give the most relentless angry blowjobs) before he was thrown over the end table (that might explain the broken lamp) and plowed.

Did they agree to stop after that? Or had Eames told Arthur to get out before the cock-sucking commenced? Eames suspects, with a sinking feeling, that it was the latter. That he'd utterly failed to preserve his position and his dignity.

Eames had departed for an evening of heavy drinking, a brawl at a pub which ended in broken fingers--no, those were the casualties of punching a door, of all things. He'd driven himself to the hospital after--and good god, he has no memory of his time there, that part is completely blank--and somehow returned home. 

Was Arthur still there, packing? Did they fuck again? It would explain how he ended up on the sofa naked, but nothing was certain.

Eames has been silent for too long. Arthur takes a step back, straightens his jacket cuffs. "Did you get that text from Mikhail?" Arthur asks, expression schooled into the neutral mask he uses whenever he's trying to be menacing, hide his irritation with a client, or ignore a raging hard-on.

It takes Eames a moment to process the shift in conversation. "Yes."

"Let me know if you want me there or not. I'll leave it up to you." Arthur's all cordial American workplace manners again, as he if he hadn't pried Eames' legs open less than ten hours ago and made him come so many times his balls dried up.

Well, two could play at that. "Darling," Eames says in his airiest tone. "I don't give a flying fuck what you do." He walks out the door without a glance back.

* * * * *

Eames first visited Italy at the age of twelve. His impressions: pasta, maniac drivers, people shouting at the top of their lungs. It wasn't that he found the local temperament disagreeable so much as he found it implausible--what could all the fuss be about? Passion, it seemed to him, was merely a joke in which the punchline was you.

He first visited Wisconsin at the age of thirty. His impressions: corn, maniac drivers, and pathological amounts of passive aggression. The job was a modest one, taken mostly due to a (rapidly) dwindling bank account, but the per diem was generous and Eames didn't have any better options on account of having to flee Macau (semi) unexpectedly.

The first order of business was meeting the point man. Fresh out of the American military was the report, a bit of a jackass, but competent enough. The extractor had arranged a dinner for them at the only local restaurant of note (and what a small note it was).

"Reservation under the name E. Rochester," Eames said to the twenty-something hostess.

"Oh yes, the other member of your party is here already," the girl said, breathless and blushing. Eames tended to have that effect on women, and usually wouldn't bother to engage. But after a grueling plane ride in peasant class followed by a fifty minute ride in a taxi that stank of cigarettes and despair, he felt he deserved a reward. With a minimal amount of effort, he could probably maneuver a blowjob round back or a free meal.

Eames delivered his most rakish smirk. "Everything alright, darling?"

Instead of bursting into spontaneous giggles and twirling her hair, the girl looked towards the back of the restaurant and sighed. "He just--he looks like a Disney prince."

Eames had to hold back a scoff. This was the problem with country bumpkin standards; anybody with all their teeth and no visible deformities would be hailed as Apollo descended to earth in this backwater.

And then he reached his table.

This point man had waves of thick, dark hair, a mouth that could have been carved by Michelangelo, and a muscular body his ill-fitting suit hid not at all. Eames felt all the blood rush away from his brain as he somehow found himself face to face with one of the most handsome men he'd ever met in his entire life. 

In the middle of bloody Wisconsin.

"Are you Eames?" The man asked, his voice a deep, improbable velvet. "Because you're seven minutes late."

"Are you Arthur?" Eames took a seat. "Because you can suck my seven inch cock."

"This isn't a fucking social call." Arthur's face was impassive, but there was no mistaking the way he glanced at Eames' mouth. "Let's focus on business."

Eames suppressed the urge to repeat Arthur's words under his breath. Such behavior was juvenile and beneath him. He opened the menu instead, deciding to order the most expensive items on it.

The conversation did not improve over the course of the meal. Arthur was priggish, smug, condescending, utterly luscious to behold--and he knew it. Eames alternated between mind-numbing lust and petty rage.

Eames managed to finish his entree before he followed Arthur into the loo. It smelled like urine and cheap cologne, none of which mattered when Arthur took Eames' cock in hand and wrung out an orgasm. 

Arthur practically forced Eames to his knees afterwards, heedless of his afterglow. Eames was initially too surprised to resist. No one treated him like this. Men and women fawned over him, pleaded for attention--they didn't unzip their trousers and grab Eames by the back of the neck. 

And yet Eames founds himself sucking an insufferable American's dick, aroused beyond belief. Arthur didn't warn him before he came, didn't apologize when Eames practically choked, and didn't pay for the dinner.

The job was a success. In spite of--or perhaps because of--Eames and Arthur arguing every single part of the plan. Eames left work furious and hoarse most days. In the evenings, Arthur would come over and make both conditions worse. 

It was an exhausting experience. After Eames left Wisconsin, he swore to himself: never again.

Three months later, he was in Rome hurling drunken invectives and--at one point, a shoe--at Arthur. The tourists watched in horror while the locals shrugged and moved along.

* * * * *

This is what happens when they meet again on Mikhail's job a month later:

The first day is spent pretending they barely know each other.

The first night is spent drinking with the entire team, because there's nothing else to do in Siberia. Eames resists hurling himself at Arthur, despite the fact that Arthur looks like Galatea come to life in a village of inbred potato farmers. He picks up a short Russian with no English and a serviceable cock instead; congratulates himself on his restraint.

On the second day, Arthur comes to work with a sour mood and new suit which hugs his arse like a divine palm. That evening, Eames celebrates with a different Russian. Unfortunately, his English is better than the first and he is very interested in practicing it with Eames.

On the third day, Arthur's mood has shifted into murderous territory. Everyone on the team avoids eye contact except for Mikhail because, as always, Mikhail doesn't give a shit. Arthur's shed the jacket of his suit, rolled up his sleeves to reveal muscular forearms, and Eames refuses to think about licking tan skin.

That evening, Eames doesn't make it to the bar. Arthur made (or pickpocketed) himself an extra key to Eames' room, a fact that becomes clear when he lets himself in without knocking. Eames is in the midst of dressing when Arthur backs him up against the wall and puts his tongue down Eames' throat.

"I thought we weren't doing this anymore," Eames says when they break for air. Satisfaction thrums through his veins.

"Am I supposed to watch you spread your legs for every man in this town?" Arthur replies as he rips Eames' half-buttoned shirt open.

"If you wanted to watch, you need only ask." Eames tips his head back as Arthur sucks bruises down his throat and collarbone. He wants to feel Arthur's bare skin against his chest, a mouth at his nipples, but Arthur's already moved on to undoing Eames' belt. 

"You would do it, wouldn't you?" Arthur shoves him over the side of an armchair, Eames falling face first into the seat cushion. Eames tries to get up but Arthur pins him, forces Eames' trousers down to slap his bare arse. Eames jolts at the pain, feels his cock twitch perversely. "You'd love it if I dragged you into the center of town so everyone could watch you get fucked and ask for more."

Eames can imagine it now: walking through the square in broad daylight, coming to a stop because Arthur demanded he strip and bend over. All the villagers would watch in shock--horror--envy--as Eames did it without protest. They'd imagine themselves in his position, stuffed full of Arthur's cock. They'd imagine themselves in Arthur's position, fucking someone so obviously cock-hungry.

"Perhaps what I actually want is for you to watch someone who knows what they're doing," Eames says, struggling to keep his tone breezy, flippant. "You think you're the best I've ever had?"

Eames glances back at Arthur, pleased to see the shock that passes over his face.

"This coming from the man who likes to top, what, once every six months?" Arthur yanks Eames' arms back, ties them with the belt. "And half the time, I'm still the one doing all the goddamn work."

"I've never heard any complaints." Eames tests the restraints. They're solid. He could escape them, but it would probably hurt like hell to do so. The thought of being truly trapped under Arthur makes his heartrate quicken.

"Like you'd bother to listen."

Eames receives no warning before two fingers plunge into his arse. He gasps at the brutal intrusion, tries to wriggle away but Arthur's bodyweight is holding him in place. 

Arthur finds Eames' prostate, pressing firmly, without any ramp up or gentleness. Eames chokes at the unexpected, searing pleasure. Arthur inserts a third finger. Pace and pressure both pick up, wiping away all thought as lightning races through Eames' body.

Eames' hips work restlessly, chasing after some stimulation for his cock. But the way he's draped over the chair means there's nothing besides air for him to thrust against. He's so hard, cock curving upwards against his stomach, leaking in time with Arthur's relentless assault. Every muscle in Eames' body is tense, electrified.

Eames' eyes roll back in his head when he comes, hips jerking. Instead of easing up or backing off, however, Arthur continues to fingerfuck Eames. Eames moans as a series of aftershocks blaze through his body, smaller orgasms brought on by that insistent, inescapable force.

"Arthur," Eames slurs, limp against the chair. The pleasure has taken on an edge of pain. Arthur doesn't seem interested in stopping.

Arthur leans forward to whisper in Eames' ear, fingers still moving inexorably inside him. "You think I don't know what I'm doing?"

"I can't--" Eames' words get swallowed up by a shaky groan when the pressure and pace pick up yet again. His mouth falls open as he's seized by another orgasm. It leaves him practically drooling as Arthur wrings more ecstasy from his overwhelmed body.

He loses track of time, floating in a haze of overstimulation and bliss and pain. He's still incoherent and unfocused when his wrists are untied and he's manhandled into a new position on his back. He watches with distant interest as Arthur replaces fingers with cock, arranges Eames' legs the way he wants them.

When Arthur starts moving, the angle of entry and fullness feels good, different. He's skims across Eames' prostate with every thrust, a grounding ache to the dizzy euphoria. 

Eames' cock is still red and hard, hasn't had the opportunity to soften despite running out of ejaculate a while back. When Arthur touches it, Eames shudders at the fresh sensation. Arthur's grip isn't affectionate or romantic. It's controlling. Possessive. 

Eames can't push him off. Doesn't want to.

It hurts and it's ecstasy and it feels like ownership when Arthur makes Eames come again. It's a dry orgasm, Eames so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. Arthur pulls out of his arse, tears off the condom, and ejaculates into Eames' waiting mouth.

Eames swallows. Suckles as Arthur watches, one corner of his mouth turned up.

* * * * *

Eames wakes in a strange bed. No--a strange couch. He's naked and his arse is sore.

He looks around his hotel room. It's empty.

fin


End file.
